The Burning White

by Brent Weeks

  Then he apologized profusely to the young luxiat in golden robes and many chains, who had only risen, wobbly, as far as his knees.

  Quentin waved away Amzîn’s proffered hand. “No, no, actually thank you. You’ve saved me all the effort of getting down gracefully in all this regalia.” Facing Karris, Quentin lay himself prostrate, stretching out his hands toward her feet. “High Lady. Gracious One. Beloved Mistress. How may I serve you?”

  “Please stand,” Karris said. “I mean, if you can, under the weight of all that.”

  The wide Blackguard offered his hand again, but Quentin flinched. “Err, no… no, thank you.”

  “Amzîn?” Karris asked.

  “High Lady?”

  “First day solo?”

  “Yes, High Lady,” he said, pained. A Blackguard was supposed to be well-nigh invisible to his wards, and he was failing. Horribly.

  “Why don’t you take position out in the hallway? I think the threats to my health and well-being are much more likely to be out there… if you are.”

  He seemed at first relieved, and then at the whipcrack of the last words, stung. His face went from wounded to stoic quickly, though, give him that.

  Karris wanted to be forgiving, but she’d been a Blackguard. Second-best wasn’t good enough, and if this kid couldn’t get better fast, she was going to be riding the watch captains for their bad judgment in promoting him.

  Besides, she wasn’t going to get close to another Blackguard kid. She’d probably just have to kill him in the end, like she had Gavin Greyling.

  He slipped out quietly and professionally.

  Orholam damn this war. With all the drafting she was requiring of everyone, Karris was going to be killing a lot of Gavin Greylings before the year was out.

  “Seems like a lot more chains than when we last spoke,” Karris said. She had much of the story already from others, which was good, because Quentin’s modesty kept him from giving her the full truth.

  “My spiritual director told me I can’t sell them all,” Quentin said. “If I’m to be your scourge of the luxiats, they should see both their wealth and the loss of it. At least until it seems like it’s becoming a contest.”

  “How’s that?” Karris asked.

  He unfolded the tale succinctly. Ever since Karris had spared his life, recognizing his contrition at what he’d done was real, Quentin had taken on a unique position. She’d made him a slave—her slave—but required him to dress always in gold finery. It was both a personal penance for his own ambition and intended to be a corporate penance for all the luxiats who’d forgotten who they were supposed to be serving.

  Quentin was hated and reviled by many of the luxiats, but no one dared physically harm him—as far as Karris knew at least—because he was Karris’s property, and they feared her. As well they should. But even if they hadn’t used fists, Karris was certain many luxiats had used their words to hurt Quentin.

  He’d taken every abuse and accepted it.

  Soon, guilt-stricken by their own cruelty, some young luxiats had come to beg his forgiveness, and ended up confessing much more. With his intellectual gifts and deep study, the old Quentin had once been on track to becoming High Luxiat. Now he was a slave. As he listened, he condemned no one who came to him, and he seemed to be able to understand everyone, from high to low. He was a convicted murderer, but oddly also the most devout luxiat they knew.

  Among the young luxiats at least, he’d become an important figure.

  He thought he was merely an oddity, like a good-luck charm to them, but Karris knew he was becoming more than that. The young luxiats gave him alms.

  And then, as Quentin’s new reputation spread, so, too, did strangers.

  It made him enemies among the older luxiats, who’d hated him already for rubbing their own shortcomings in their faces and now hated him more for being so apparently righteous, and admired (a convicted murderer, admired!) on top of it all.

  Which now helped her understand what he meant about the donated jewelry he wore becoming a contest. As luxiats or lords gave to him, and saw their piece soon thereafter being worn, they might feel proud of it, but soon it would be gone—sold for another’s bread. His wearing of it was to be a reminder that they didn’t own it any longer, and if that stung, then good. If they gave without feeling a pinch, how did that help them learn to sacrifice? His no longer wearing it would be a further sign of how Orholam gives gifts, not that they may be hoarded but that they may be used. If that pained them, too, then that was good as well.

  If, on the other hand, seeing him wear their jewelry started to give lords bragging rights, he would stop, and that could pain them, too.

  He continued his studies—Karris had ordered him to do that, mainly so that he must always be among the luxiats—but he also volunteered in the worst precincts of Big Jasper, where he worked at charity hospitals and fed the poor, often helping in the sculleries himself. He’d been beaten and robbed several times—the gold clothing was the sign of an easy and lucrative mark. Once he’d been hit so hard he’d lost his hearing in one ear.

  But he had no fear whatsoever, nor would he countenance stopping his work.

  Of all people, white-bearded High Luxiat Amazzal had put a stop to the muggings. Karris’s agents had reported that the old man had gone into Overhill himself, in plain clothing nearly as old as he was. He’d shown some toughs something (her agent couldn’t see what) that made them very nervous. Then old High Luxiat Amazzal was taken to a building where some very powerful people with illegal interests were reputed to spend time gambling together. After half an hour, he left.

  She got a note the next day from Amazzal: “Certain wayward sheep from my old flock have contacted me. They’ve noticed young Quentin’s good works and wish them to continue. They tell me that henceforth, as well as they are able, he will be protected.”

  It was an odd construction—like it was their idea, not his. Like he hadn’t paid for it with some kind of coin or another. But he hadn’t been summoned by them, Karris was sure of that. She’d deployed a dozen spies on Amazzal, searching his offices, delving into his finances, following him everywhere he went, intercepting his correspondence and looking for codes, and noting every book he touched in case it was being used as a cipher key. Amazzal had been one of her prime candidates for being the Old Man of the Desert, the head of the Order of the Broken Eye.

  Instead, his only secrets appeared to be secretly doing good works and depleting his own family fortunes at a rate that suggested he hoped to die without so much as a danar to his name. Though Amazzal looked the part perfectly, with his flowing beard and imposing voice, he wasn’t a great High Luxiat.

  But it looked more and more like he was a good one.

  Nice as it was to find out that some men who appeared to be good actually were good, it also meant that in surveilling him, Karris had wasted time and resources.

  She was running out of both.

  “I’ve something very hard to ask of you,” she said.

  “I’m your slave, by law and by choice. You needn’t ask,” Quentin said.

  Damn he was a weird kid.

  “It’ll be difficult and dangerous. It would put you in the company of a hardened murderer.”

  “I’m a murderer myself,” he said.

  Not a hardened one. “Any misstep could mean your death, and others’. It may be too hard for you.”

  “It won’t be more than I can handle.”

  “You trust me too much,” Karris said.

  He laughed suddenly. “I don’t trust you at all!”

  She stepped back, offended. She was the White. And Quentin’s owner.

  “I’ve offended you. I’m sorry,” he said. “But you misunderstand. I mean I don’t place the locus of my trust in you or on your judgment, but in Orholam alone. You needn’t take on His burden. Being the White would be too much for anyone to bear alone!”

  She got it then, though he was so intelligent that he forgot that others weren’t as
quick as he was. He didn’t need to trust her, because he trusted Orholam, who had put her in her position. Her choices mattered… but also didn’t in some way that somehow made sense to luxiats, but never quite had to Karris.

  Holy people can be so exhausting.

  Well, she deserved whatever trouble Quentin gave her for what she was going to do to him. She said, “I’m sending you to someone who’s killed a lot of innocent people—I don’t know, twenty, twenty-five? All dead at my behest.”

  Quentin blanched. “You’ve ordered twenty murders?”

  “I’ve ordered my agent to do what was necessary to accomplish what had to be done.”

  “To what end?” His voice, not low to start with, pitched squeaky.

  To what end? It was the kind of archaic phrasing you’d hear from a kid who’d grown up with a wide variety of friends: friends writ on papyrus, friends writ on sheepskin, and friends writ on wood pulp—but not many of flesh and blood.

  Karris said, “I want you to be her handler.”

  “Her—what? A handler? Me?”

  “But I want you to do something harder than that. I want you to be her friend. Orholam’s told me that you both need one, desperately.” Almost as much as I do.

  “Who are we talking—wait, you can’t be serious.”

  * * *

  Karris stepped out of the room a minute later. Her young Blackguard Amzîn was waiting, precisely where he was supposed to be, with perfect posture and alertness.

  “Good kid,” Karris said, closing the door behind her.

  She saw the flicker of doubt in his eyes. She gave him leave to speak with a gesture.

  “Isn’t that the luxiat who murdered that girl?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Sad story, huh? Promising young talent gets elevated too high too soon. Ends with a young woman with a bullet in her throat.”

  Amzîn got a pained look on his face, but it was the wrong kind of pained look. He could tell she was doing more than repeating the facts, but he had no idea why.

  She said, “You and me, Amzîn. You’re the promising young talent. Let’s do our best not to reprise the part where someone takes a bullet because of it, eh?”

  Chapter 33

  ~The Guile~

  40 years ago. (Age 26.)

  “This,” Lord Dariush announces, spreading his arms grandly, “is the world’s last surviving Solarch!”

  He is so proud that I almost burst into inappropriate laughter.

  “No,” I say, but with not nearly the true degree of horror I feel. I infuse my disbelief more with ‘No, really? How’d you manage that, you brilliant man?’ than ‘No, no, it’s not.’

  “Oh yes!” he says. He is delighted.

  “This?” I allow myself, for anyone would have doubts, not just anyone with a brain.

  And here, moments ago, I had hoped for this man’s daughter to breed in some emotional brilliance to the Guile family line. Maybe his wife is very, very smart. I shall have to hope.

  He chortles. “I told you you’d find it incredible.”

  I clear my throat. “I thought you meant the other definition of that word,” I say.

  “I know,” he says. “I know. Study it. You’ll see.”

  I’m never going to want to look at another painting in my life.

  But, dutifully, I lean close and pretend to be enrapt.

  I didn’t come to Atash for art appreciation—unless one wishes to call enjoying the nude figure of this man’s daughter ‘art appreciation.’

  Alas, there’s not only been none of that, but I’ve barely even seen the woman I’ve come to woo and wed.

  In a full week, I’ve seen more of her sister, Ninharissi, than I have of her, and when I have seen Felia, it’s been at dinners—where I wasn’t even seated next to her.

  My pique is nearing the level of rage.

  I’ve figured out why he’s kept me from her now—it’s all part of his maneuvering for these barbaric bride-price negotiations these savages practice—but it still rankles me.

  “Speaking of definitions of words,” he says, “how did your parents come to bestow such a name on you?”

  “You’ve been wanting to ask that for days, haven’t you?” I ask, as if amused.

  I’m not. I think I’m coming to hate this man. I turn briefly away from the painting. Honestly, I’ve not caught even two details about it, I’m so focused on not letting my rage bleed through.

  I shall need to take a break from drafting red, I think. I am not naturally a patient man, even without it.

  He smiles. “Was it so obvious? I tried to wait until it wouldn’t be rude.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say, staring again back at the painting as if I care. “Well… I knew that a philologist such as yourself would be disappointed if I said my mother simply liked the sound of the words, so… I’ll tell you that the name came to her in a dream.”

  He laughs. “Fair! Fair. I suppose not all men spend their lives trying to escape the shadow of their name.”

  “Did you try to escape yours, my lord? Roshe Roshan Dârayavahush is no easy yoke for the shoulders of an infant. Nor even for a man to bear, one should think.”

  I don’t quite suppress my pleasure at saying the name with precisely the correct diction and accent.

  On the ship here, hoping to make a good impression on my father-in-law-to-be, I practiced for three dark days so I could say his name exactly as a local would. Three days I’ll never have back, for one offhand sentence, to woo a woman I may no longer want.

  But I continue nonchalantly. “Quite a lot to live up to.”

  Felia explained the name to me in one of her letters. It took her two full parchments, and she is not a woman to ramble. It means Judge Bright (or Light) Who Possesses Much Good (or Many Goods). ‘Judge’ placed first to hearken back to when petty kings (called ‘judges’ here) had ruled Atash. Judging—literally ‘bringing justice’—was what Atashians understood as sole reason to have kings. It’s something they’re still quite proud of, centuries after the fact, believing it denoted some deep truth about their national character: here rulers were established in order to serve the people.

  Funny how that didn’t last. Denying reality only works as long as enough powerful people see a benefit in playing along.

  So Lord Dariush—his name was usually shortened from Dârayavahush—had a name that meant the Rich, Smart, Good, and Perceptive (or Able to See through the Surface of Things to the Truth) Bringer of Justice.

  I’m sure the other children had no problems with a boy named that. Here I’d been angry at my mother that my name so easily devolved into the sarcastic ‘Handy Andy’ after a sudden growth spurt out of my youthful rotundity had left me clumsy—a good trade, I’ll grant. Clumsiness can pass, fat is forever. ‘Randy Andy’ came after my first failed attempt at wooing a girl. (Quoting ancient Parian poetry, spoken of in my beloved books as being such a strong aphrodisiac that many kings had banned it, was not, as it turned out, appreciated by the puzzled thirteen-year-old target of my affections, neither in the original language nor in the best translation I could find.) ‘Glossy Rossy’ came during the same lovely oleofacurating pubertal years, and ‘At-a-loss Andross’ was from my first fight at age fourteen, when a lout called me Fart Eater and I’d asked what ‘Fart Eater’ even meant.

  It would not be the last time the human race disappointed me. I’d learned then that reflecting the vacuity of the congenitally un-self-aware back to themselves will not inspire a philosophical awakening.

  As it turns out, ‘Do you see how stupid that is?’ is a question you can only ask an intelligent person. Or more precisely, an intelligent person who is acting, saying, or believing something stupid. Thus, either one who is intelligent but not brilliant, or one who is young or uneducated or unequipped with formal logical apparatus.

  I was indeed at a loss in that fight: lost in thought, thinking these things.

  Then, coming to strategic grips with my intellectual discovery and realizing that the pr
esent situation called for a different type of solution altogether, I punched the lout across the nose.

  Then I sat on his chest, grabbed a handful of his hair in my left hand, and said, ‘That’s Right-Cross Andross to you.’

  Then I’d demonstrated my right cross again, careful to hold his head tight so it didn’t rebound off the cobblestones. I wanted to teach him and his friends a lesson, not kill him.

  I’d been so disappointed that ‘Right-Cross Andross’ hadn’t caught on.

  ‘Cross Ross’ had.

  Those stinky, sebaceous little semen secretors.

  ‘Criss-cross Ross’ came after one of my more maladroit early schemes had failed. That still stung—the failure, not the sophomoric onomatopoeia.

  You know, on second thought, best not to remember the teen years.

  The Guile memory is not always a gift.

  Fortunately, though far-ranging, my mnemonic vacation has been brief. Nor is Lord Dariush one to hurry. And I had the good sense to drift while facing his little painting.

  On actually studying it, I now wish I’d begun with my examination first and let my mind wander later.

  Barely a foot square, the painting is prominently displayed where one must view it on the way to the solarium gallery’s exit. The technique and colors and sensitivity are exquisite, and the style so idiosyncratic that one might see any painting by this master and know it to be his, regardless of the subject.

  But the subject.

  What in Orholam’s lowest hell?

  “What… is… this?” I can’t help but ask.

  “Some say that Solarch was a Mirror, and this is meant to be art for a Card, though I’ve seen no corroborating evidence of that.”

  I don’t think that can be true. This is merely genius. As tragically misplaced and misapplied as it is undeniably, bafflingly superior.

  This is a painting that would cause contemporary critics to scoff, his patron to grumble, and his competitors to throw down their brushes in agony and vexation.

  Breathed by the greatest wordsmith ever to turn a phrase, this is a poem… about a bowel movement. This is the greatest composer of all time making fart jokes instead of penning concertos.